The Hazards of Living with a Genius
by GhyllWyne
Summary: This is going to be a series of one-shots that explore moments in the relationship as it develops over the years. Some will expand on scenes from the series, and others will be fill-ins for what happened off screen. Some angst, of course, but humor, too. And you know there will be H/C at some point. A leopard can't change her spots all that much. Reviews and feedback are welcome.
1. Ground Rules

His flatmate was stretched out full length on the sofa with his eyes closed and his hands in the prayer position under his chin. It was Sherlock's thinking posture, John had been informed early on, never to be disturbed unless absolutely necessary, and preferably not even then. In the four and a half weeks since they had moved in to Baker Street, he had watched Sherlock spend hours in this state, and it was still vaguely unnerving. John had tried meditation himself at one point, largely to please an earnest young woman he'd been trying to impress, but he'd never seen anyone who could go quite as deeply into it as Sherlock seemed to do. His current session had started just over three hours ago, and he'd been utterly motionless ever since, although John was reasonably certain the man was still breathing. Occasionally. He should probably check, but at the moment, he was almost too angry to care.

It wasn't just anger. There was a healthy dose of resentment, too, and it had been building since day one. He had managed for the most part to keep it buried beneath the professional calm of a physician and Army officer, battle-hardened and schooled in maintaining control under the worst of circumstances. But nothing in his training or experience prepared him for the water-torture drip of daily assaults on his personal space, private property, and general sense of self worth. He had tried to tell himself that Sherlock wasn't intentionally trying to drive him crazy. It was just one of the hazards of living with a genius. The man wasn't used to having friends, and obviously had no experience with accommodating another human being in such continuous close proximity. It was bound to take time to adjust. But the rationalizations had recently stopped making sense to him, and the grievances had begun to accumulate. The past two days had brought it all to a head. The chip and pin machine had simply been standing in for the real target of his frustration. It was time to clear the air before he started taking out his frustrations on something other than inanimate objects.

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

No response.

John shifted in his chair by the fire so he was facing Sherlock's position. He cleared his throat and raised the volume a bit. "Sherlock, if you want me to keep living here, we need to talk. Now."

Sherlock opened his eyes. "What?" The whip-crack delivery was Sherlock's version of a rattlesnake shaking its tail.

"I said, we need to talk."

Sherlock turned his head to look in John's direction. "What now?"

Sherlock was peeved. Fine. John kept his voice even. "Do you want it alphabetically, or chronologically?"

A horizontal crease appeared just above the bridge of Sherlock's nose between those mesmerizing eyes which were now focused on him. Sherlock swung his legs to the floor and sat up. "What are you talking about?"

John sighed. "I wouldn't expect you to notice anything so mundane as me being royally pissed off at you, but I would like to discuss it, if you can spare a few minutes."

Sherlock gave him a narrow look and backed it up with a snort. "You spend most of your waking hours being annoyed with me to one degree or another. I assumed it was your default position." He stood up and walked straight across the coffee table, directly to his leather chair facing John and dropped into it. "Prioritize by degree of importance, in descending order." He began drumming the fingers of both hands on the arms of the chair.

John sat up straight, hands on his knees. "Okay. What do I have to do to stop being left behind while you go tearing off into dangerous situations alone?"

Sherlock's fingers stopped drumming. "I don't require a bodyguard. Do you think that's your function here?"

"I don't have a bloody clue what my function is. That's part of the problem. Leaving me outside a locked door not once but twice in a single day is rude even for you, not to mention dangerous. I need you to agree not to do it again, or you can do the whole thing on your own. I'm not tagging along just so you can ditch me like a bad date."

Sherlock studied him for a moment, and the fingers resumed tapping the arms of the chair. When he opened his mouth to reply, John rolled right over him.

"You seem to forget that I'm a medical doctor. You didn't fool me, you know. Someone tried to strangle you in Soo Lin's flat, and they did a pretty fair job of it, going by what was left of your voice when you came out. You barely got away with your life. That kind of injury can be life-threatening even if it doesn't kill you outright. Your throat could have started to swell shut while you were busy pretending nothing happened." John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing himself to calm down. This was the foreseeable result of holding his temper for too long, but letting it loose wasn't the solution, either. "I could have helped, if you had let me in." He winced at the unexpected change in his tone. It smacked of bruised feelings, which was true but not at all the message he wanted to convey.

Sherlock didn't say anything for a long moment. His elbows were resting on the arms of the chair, and his hands were back in the prayer position, fingertips resting at his lips. "I see."

"That's all you have to say?"

Sherlock waved a hand in John's direction. "Please continue."

"No, wait. I'm not going to go through all this if you're just going to brush me off."

"I'm not brushing you off, John. You implied that you have multiple concerns. I prefer to hear the entire list so I can evaluate them in context before I respond."

"Evaluate them in..." He shook his head. "So, even my complaints are going to be judged? That's pretty much the whole problem in a nutshell. I don't quite measure up, do I? As a friend, or a flatmate. I can barely pay my share, and when I do manage to find a job, you tell me it's dull, and then you keep me out all night so I'm so bloody exhausted that I fall asleep at my desk. I'll be lucky not to be sacked."

"Colleague." Sherlock said the word quietly, his eyes fixed on John's.

"What?"

"You corrected me when I introduced you as my friend." His expression was unreadable.

Oh. That damned distancing reflex. He had realized his mistake as soon as the word was out of his mouth. Of course, he couldn't have known the history between Sherlock and the banker, but he should have recognized the emphasis Sherlock had put on the word 'friend' as well as the disbelieving tone Wilkes had used to mock it. That, and the smirk on the man's face when John had immediately corrected Sherlock, spoke volumes. The conversation that followed had made John squirm, and the look on Sherlock's face when Wilkes talked about how much his classmates had hated him made John want to jump across the desk and throttle the smug bastard. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know what made me say that. It was-"

"The truth, obviously," Sherlock cut him off in an utterly neutral voice. "Don't apologize for being honest."

"But it _wasn't_ the truth. I was still pissed off about the thing at the market, and having to borrow your card, and the stack of bills I can't pay. And you hacking into my laptop didn't help. You don't respect boundaries, Sherlock. Some things are personal, and not all of it is fair game." He blew out a breath, puffing his cheeks in frustration. "But none of that excuses what I said. I _am_ sorry. I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

Sherlock dismissed his apology with a wave of his hand. "It's forgotten. You have nothing to apologize for."

"Wilkes is a smug jackass, and it galls me that I gave him something to gloat about." His anger was back, but with a new target.

Sherlock quirked one corner of his mouth in a brief smile. "He's juggling two mistresses, a wife, and a gambling addiction. He won't be gloating much longer."

John smiled. "I won't ask how you know that."

"It's that trick I do."

Sherlock's dry delivery made John smile, and it broke the tension. John cleared his throat. "I want you to know that I'm not overlooking what you've done for me. I never thanked you for curing my bum leg. Six months of sessions with a therapist did nothing. You diagnosed the problem and cured it in a single night. You're literally keeping the roof over my head, and the only thing you seem to need me for is to do your shopping, with your money. I'd like to think that I have more to offer."

Sherlock waited for him to continue, then asked neutrally, "Is that all of it?"

"You could give a little more consideration to my sex life." He said it with a straight face, but he couldn't entirely smother his smile at Sherlock's shocked reaction. "Relax, I'm talking about my dates. You seemed amazingly oblivious about why I wanted to be alone with Sarah."

It took Sherlock a moment to recover. Flustering the man was a rare feat, and John allowed himself to enjoy it.

"I was focused on the case, John. Forgive me for not taking your hormones into account." He paused. "Did you achieve your goal?"

John snorted. "That thing about being tied to a chair with a crossbow aimed at her chest seemed to kill the mood. I'm hoping for a return engagement." He hesitated. "Thank you for coming to our rescue. I can't say I wouldn't have preferred a more timely arrival, but better late than never."

"You rescued yourself. All I did was provide a distraction."

That was actually true, and John nodded. "We make a good team, Sherlock. Or, we would, if you'd let me in. Literally."

Sherlock responded with the first real smile he had allowed since they began talking. "I agree." His expression returned to neutral. "Is there anything else you'd like to bring up?"

John paused to consider. His anger had largely evaporated, but there was still the ASBO charge, the snide comments on his blogging efforts, and that infuriating assumption that everyone was an idiot, but he had covered the hot buttons. "That's pretty much it."

Sherlock got up and walked to the window. After a long pause, he turned to face John. "I should have unlocked the door to Van Coon's flat immediately. I was grandstanding, and I won't do that again. In Soo Lin's flat, I was actually talking to you the entire time. I thought you were still outside in the alley. When I realized you'd gone around to the front door, I was heading that way to let you in when the acrobat jumped me from behind. I realized too late that he must still be in the flat. If it helps, I was calling your name while he was strangling me. I just couldn't generate enough volume."

The thought of Sherlock being throttled and calling for help while John was having a temper tantrum on the front stoop made him feel ill. "I didn't hear you." His voice was rough. "I would have kicked the door down. You could have died."

"I didn't tell you at the time for exactly this reason. I knew you would take it personally, and I was fine."

"Why the hell wouldn't I take it personally?"

"Because it would not have been your fault if I'd been killed, it would have been my own. I failed to realize my assailant was in the flat despite all the evidence that clearly said he was."

John stared at him. "And you think that would have mattered? You think I would have just shrugged it off and moved on because you brought it on yourself?"

The crease between his eyes was back. "You're not responsible for me, John."

"Which brings us back to my point. Why am I here? What are you getting out of this?"

"You mean aside from the fact that you saved my life? An act for which I have yet to thank you, by the way." He took a breath. "Thank you."

John felt a rush of emotion that he couldn't classify, and he rolled his eyes to hide it. "That must have hurt to say." He tried to look stern. "You're welcome. I would appreciate it if you wouldn't make it quite so difficult the next time."

Sherlock seemed lost in thought for a long moment. Finally, he looked straight at John and asked in a voice that seemed too carefully neutral, "Does that mean you've decided to stay?"

John had forgotten that he'd resorted to that threat. "There is one more thing. I can live with being expected to dig the phone out of the jacket you're wearing when you can't be bothered to do it yourself, but there are limits. If you start carrying it in your trouser pocket, you're on your own."

Sherlock kept his expression serious, too, but there was a brief quirk of a smile that he smothered quickly. "I think I can agree to that."

John slapped his knees and stood up. "I'm in the mood for dim sum. I hear there's an excellent place at the end of Baker Street. Did you know you can tell a good Chinese restaurant by the bottom third of the door handle?"

Sherlock feigned surprise. "That's an interesting theory. I think we should test it out."

He pulled on his coat and scarf, then headed down the stairs. John waited where he was standing in the middle of the room. A moment later, the footsteps came back up and Sherlock appeared in the doorway. His smile was almost shy. "Dinner?"

John grabbed his coat. "Starving."

* * *

End of The Hazards of Living with a Genius

 **A/N -** Yes, I know. The Blind Banker is at the top of a lot of 'least favorite episodes' lists. I like it for several nice scenes. One is that adorable smile Sherlock gives John when he tells him to 'take my card'. John is in such a nasty mood, and Sherlock is just so damned nice about it. Another is where they're at the circus, and the boys are standing almost back to back, trading looks over their shoulders. I know I have some company in that because I've noticed a lot of YouTube vids using it. The point of this story is to make John apologize for correcting Sherlock calling him his friend. That scene makes me cringe every time I watch it. He looked sorry immediately, but I wanted him to say so. I would love to hear what you thought. -GW


	2. A Study in Pique

A/N - Takes place after John and Sherlock have a little domestic at the beginning of The Great Game. John grabs a cab across the street and manages to get far enough away by the time the bomb goes off that he won't hear about it until morning. After a long cab ride around London with no real destination in mind, he finds himself at Sarah's flat.

* * *

Sarah opens her door before he knocks, one brow arched and a half smile on her lips. "So, what's he done this time?"

That John is apparently so transparent and predictable just kicks his irritation up another notch and aims it fractionally in her direction. "What makes you think I'm not just dropping by to say hello?"

She closes the door behind him and takes his coat. "I'm trying very hard not to roll my eyes. Go sit by the fire and I'll make some tea." She puts his coat in the closet and turns. "Or would you prefer something stronger?"

Tempting, but no. "Tea sounds fine, thanks."

He shouldn't have barged in without calling, but he hadn't started out to come here. He just had to get out of Baker Street before he said something he couldn't take back. The contrast between Sarah's spotless modern decor and the comfortable clutter of 221B is striking and welcome right now. The only similarity between the two locations is the cozy fireplace and the two facing chairs in front of it. In Sarah's flat, the chairs are fashionable, and matching.

By the time she comes out with two mugs and sits in the chair facing his, John has his temper under control.

She tucks her feet under her and sips for a moment. "Did you walk all the way from Baker Street? You look a little windblown."

"I had the cabbie drop me off a few streets over." He smiles an apology. "I was hoping the walk would improve my mood."

"Did it work?"

"A bit. Feel free to kick me out if I begin to chew the furniture."

"Count on it." She smiles. "So, what did he do to chase you out at this time of night?"

He shrugs. "Complained about my blog. Shot holes in the wall. The usual."

Her eyebrows rise. "I hope that's a metaphor."

"No, he actually shot holes in the wall. With a gun."

She looks mildly alarmed. "I hope you took it away from him."

"I locked it up, not that it stops him. He was being a prat, and I wasn't in the mood."

"So you're surprised that he didn't like you telling the world that he doesn't know how the solar system works? The man has no sense of humor." She's not even trying to hide her amusement.

"You read my blog?" He honestly never considered the possibility that people Sherlock knows (and several at the Yard who actively dislike him) might read it. He will have to censor the personal comments a bit.

"Of course. I always read your blog. Although, if I didn't have first hand knowledge to the contrary, I would think you made up most of it."

He winces. "Yeah, sorry about that first hand experience. Again. And thank you for not laughing in my face when I asked you for a second date."

She gives him an exaggeratedly coy look and drops her voice to a sultry purr. "The last thing you make me want to do is laugh, John."

It's so over the top that they both laugh, and it breaks John's' mood.

She reaches over and pats his knee. "That's the John Watson I know. Do you feel a bit less like chewing the furniture?"

Oddly enough, he does. "Yes. Thank you."

"Are you calmed down enough to go home, or do you want me to order take away? Anything but Chinese." She smirks at him.

"I'm starved, now that you mention it. Whatever you want, I'll buy." He starts digging into his trouser pocket for his wallet.

She orders Chinese after all, and they sit in front of the fire and eat out of cartons with chopsticks. It's a pleasant, relaxing contrast to the mood he'd arrived in, and he finds himself feeling a tenderness that is mostly gratitude. "I'll wash the dishes," he offers, picking up the disposable cartons and chopsticks, waggling his eyebrows.

"You're a generous man." She leans back and stretches her bare toes toward the fire. They've been sitting on the floor with their backs resting against the front of the sofa. "Do you want to watch telly?" She calls out to the kitchen where John is washing his hands.

"Not really." He comes back to the living room and sits down on the floor next to her. "Thank you for not slamming the door in my face. The least I could have done was call and see if you had company."

She gives him a sideways glance, smiling at the fire. "I don't know anyone at the moment who would still be here at this time of night. Except you."

He thinks there might be an invitation in that. "Thank you. Does that mean you would consider letting me stay?"

Her smile slips a bit, and she turns to look at him directly. "I like you, John, but I know better than to get involved in a triangle." She pats his hand. "I'm very happy to be your friend, for now. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

He hadn't heard anything past 'triangle'. "Don't tell me you believe that nonsense, too." He drops his head back and closes his eyes.

"What nonsense? That you and Sherlock are joined at the hip? You are. I just haven't made up my mind about whether I'm ready to take second place to your hobby." She takes a breath. "How many girlfriends have you had since the two of you started living together? And I'm not being nosey, I'm making a point."

He sits up and looks at her. "Single dates don't count, right?"

Sarah rolls her eyes. "Girlfriends, John. Not dates. More than a single date, yes."

"In the past three months, just two."

She raises both brows. "That doesn't include me, does it?"

He tries his shy smile. "I didn't want to presume."

She sees right through him and waves off the comment. "Did you break it off with either of them?" She asks as if she already knows the answer.

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly. That means 'no'. Did either of them break it off without mentioning Sherlock as the reason?" She seems to think she knows the answer to that one, too.

"I think I will take you up on that offer for something stronger than tea."

"Port okay? I also have a bottle of Scotch. Somewhere." She gets up without having to put her hands on the floor, just lithely rises to her feet.

"Port would be great, thanks." Warm and soothing, but not potent enough to drop his guard. Or hers.

She comes back with two good sized glasses and hands one to him. They sip silently for a bit. It's really quite good, and he feels his tension loosen.

"So, did they?"

It takes him a moment to recall the question. "His name did come up, yes. Both times. He's an irritating prat, but there's not much I can do about it. "

She watches the fire for a bit. "You could move out."

He looks at her, but she keeps her focus on the flames, sipping from her glass. "He doesn't irritate me that much. And the work we do makes up for it, most of the time."

"Not tonight, though." She turns to look at him. "What made this time different?"

It's a fair question, and he gives it some thought. "He doesn't usually get personal with the insults. I write the damn blog to help him get clients, but he doesn't seem to know that." It's actually the only real contribution he makes to their partnership, so Sherlock's slam felt like a rejection of a lot more than the blog entry.

"He hurt your feelings."

He winces and takes a long sip. "Well, that makes me sound vaguely pathetic."

She bumps her shoulder gently against his. "Having feelings doesn't make you pathetic. It's one of your finer qualities."

He snorts at that. "According to Sherlock, they're my biggest failing, next to my dismally normal I.Q."

"Is he really a genius?"

"Yes."

"And you wonder what he sees in you."

She's hit the bulls eye, and it makes him pause. "What are you, a mind reader?"

She shrugs. "I had a flatmate at uni who was a bloody genius, too. It can be intimidating, even when the genius has an actual personality."

He suddenly feels protective of his friend. "That's a bit uncharitable, don't you think?"

She smiles at the fireplace. "I was just testing the waters."

"Sorry?"

She scoots a bit so she's facing him directly. "Putting aside for the moment that I was nearly killed on our first date by the circus performers he took us to see, I'm trying to decide if I'm willing to keep trying to win over your friend in order to keep seeing you."

"You don't have to win him over." He nearly said 'can't win him over' which is, sadly, probably true.

She studies him for a moment. "You really believe that, don't you?"

He chooses his words more carefully this time. "I can't make him behave, but I can keep you from having to put up with him. We'll just stay out of his way. You don't have to make him like you, Sarah. You would be with me, not Sherlock."

"And if we're on a date and he calls you to meet him somewhere for one of your cases, are you going to tell him no?"

He frowns. "If you got a call to go tend to a patient, would you tell them no?"

"It's not the same thing, John. If I had to tend a patient, it would be because a life was in the balance, and that's not quite the same as a puzzle that could easily be solved later."

"They're not 'puzzles'. And he would only call me if he needed backup. His life could easily be in the balance, if he went in alone. I've only just recently convinced him that he needs backup. I'm not going to refuse and undo all that. The last time he dashed off without me, he was nearly strangled to death. I-" She's giving him a knowing smile. "What?"

"You didn't hear yourself just make my point?"

He returns her smile with a rueful grin. "A bit, yeah." He sighs. "Did I just prove that I'm more trouble than I'm worth?"

She gives his thigh a chaste pat. "Not at all. I'm just telling you that I know what I'm up against. And you are most definitely worth the trouble." She gets to her feet again with that same effortless move. "Now, I've got to be up in a few hours for work. You're not on until day after tomorrow." She offers him her hand to help him up.

He briefly considers trying to duplicate her move but thinks better of it and takes her hand. "Are you tossing me out?"

"You'd never get a cab at this hour. I've got a lilo in the closet." She heads for the one where she hung up his coat. "I think the air pump is in here, too."

So, not inviting him to her bed. He's a little disappointed, but considering their conversation, he shouldn't be. "I'll just kip on the sofa."

She stops and turns back to him. "Sure? It's no trouble. You'll end up with a stiff neck."

The innuendo that pops into his head must show on his face, going by the narrow look he gets in return. He feels his cheeks heat up. "I've slept in tighter spots." That's still a bit risque, but she smiles.

"I'll get you a blanket."

The sofa is too short to allow him to stretch out, but he doubts he's going to do much sleeping. He's too keyed up, even with the second glass of port she poured for him before she headed back to her bedroom. He sips it and watches the fire, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of her flat.

He remembers how strange Baker Street had seemed the first night, and how he'd actually felt a bit homesick for his ridiculous bedsit. He'd been glad to be out of it, but a new place always took some getting used to. He'd always had problems with new places, which was especially odd for a soldier who moved as often as he'd done, and slept in places that ranged between dead silence and active gunfire. Gunfire, he could tolerate, even sleep through. But the subtle creaks and whispers of a strange flat could keep him awake all night. It was odd how quickly 221B had become home.

He finishes his wine and takes the glass out to the kitchen, making his way by the dying light of the fire. He notices that Sarah has an old electric clock over the stove that emits an annoying hum, and he frowns at it. He'll be able to hear it from the sofa, now that he knows it's there. He puts the glass in the sink and goes back to the sofa.

He does want to keep seeing her, but she's right. Sherlock will always be a factor. The scenario she used to make her point was absolutely true. He would drop everything, if Sherlock needed him. The work they do is dangerous. Any woman he becomes involved with will have to accept that. Sarah thinks it's a hobby, and that's a bit condescending. He'll have to explain the facts to her more clearly.

As the fire finally goes out and leaves the room in darkness, he really can hear the damned clock in the kitchen. He closes his eyes and replaces it with the memory of a violin.

* * *

End of A Study in Pique - part 2 of the series The Hazards of Living with a Genius


	3. An Observable Truth

**A/N -** John and Sarah are having a cozy dinner out. It doesn't stay that way. Truths are revealed, and decisions are made. Sometimes it takes a crisis to point out the obvious. 

* * *

John was wearing her down, but in a very good way. Four dates this week, one even involved dancing which she knew he had only suggested to please her. He endured it, and managed to be adorably awkward in the process. She had told him that he wasn't at all bad, and he'd blushed. He didn't believe her, but then she had been exaggerating, just a bit. What she'd meant was that she truly appreciated the effort.

What she had appreciated even more was the pointed absence of Sherlock Holmes, both in person and in spirit. John had stopped mentioning him. She occasionally saw him start to, and abruptly change tack. She wasn't fooled. She recognized the light in his eyes when he was about to relate one of his adventures with his flatmate. That he was taking special care to keep their dates Sherlock-free was encouraging, if unrealistic. She suspected it couldn't last, but it was flattering that he wanted to try. His mobile had gone off a few times, but he would just glance at the screen and put it away, unanswered. She would smile her thanks, and he seemed pleased that she'd noticed.

When he had asked her to dinner tonight, and suggested their favorite cozy pub, she had been especially pleased. It was an hour's drive by taxi from Baker Street, but less than ten minutes from her flat. And her bed. It just might be time to make use of that convenience. Tomorrow was Sunday, and a long, languid morning lay ahead. The possibilities were tantalizing.

Her natural skepticism had tried to convince her that this change in John was artifice. He was just trying to 'get off with Sarah'. She had heard that, of course, the first night, and it had guaranteed a delay in any physical relationship, but she never got the sense that sex was John's only goal. If she had, then she would have listened to her cynical side and ended it immediately. Certainly the fact that she was willing to overlook nearly being murdered on their first date spoke volumes of the potential she saw in a relationship with this man. There wasn't the faintest whiff of guile in John Watson, and her instincts for sniffing that out were finely honed. That alone made him worth the extra effort.

Their favorite pub was small and intimate. Something out of the sixteenth century, all aged stucco and dark timbers with a large walk-in stone fireplace. She loved the ambience of high backed heavy wooden booths, ancient oak plank floors, and the scent of wood smoke from four hundred years' worth of welcoming fires on the hearth. He had reserved the booth in the far corner next to the fireplace. They could see the entire room from their vantage point, but they were hidden and protected.

The waiter knew them, and he brought their drinks with the menus- a dirty martini for her with extra olives, and a pint of dark ale for him. The pub offered a surprisingly wide variety of entrees, but she chose comfort food when he came back to take their orders. It promised to be that kind of evening.

She sipped her way through half of her martini while they chatted about nothing in particular, and the warmth of it tingled all the way to her toes, loosening her reserve very nicely. "This has been so lovely," she told him, and meant it. "Thank you."

He gave her a mock frown. "The evening's not exactly over yet. We haven't even been served."

She put a promise in her smile. "You know what I meant. And the evening could be even longer than you might expect, if you play your cards right."

The waiter chose that moment to arrive with their food, and their smiles held while he served them. His polite inquiry as to what else he might get for them was waved off, and they were alone again.

John cleared his throat. "You have definitely piqued my appetite." He didn't quite waggle his eyebrows, but it was close.

"I hope so." She put a purr in her voice, and then reminded herself that too much was worse than too little, and pulled it back a bit. She tasted her stroganoff and smiled appreciatively. "This is very good."

John started to say something, then paused as his phone began to trill in his pocket. He pulled it out with an apologetic smile and glanced at the screen. The smile vanished, and he snatched the phone to his ear. "Greg, what's wrong?"

She put down her fork.

John listened tensely for a few seconds, every line of his posture at full alert. "Where?" His face was unreadable, but his eyes were dark with an emotion she'd never seen in him before. He groaned at whatever the man had just said. "It'll take me an hour to get there." Pause. "Yes, fine." He gave the address of the pub, then ended the call. "I'm sorry, but I've got to go. There's a situation." His voice was tight. "Greg's sending a police care for me. I'll call a taxi for you. I'm sorry."

"John, what's wrong?"

"It's Sherlock."

Of course. "What's happened?" She reached across the table and placed her hand over his clenched fist where it rested on the table.

"It's a hostage situation. He's hurt."

She began to pull on her coat. "I'm coming with you."

He shook his head. "No, I can't let you do that. It's too dangerous. I-"

"I'm coming."

He seemed torn for a moment, then he nodded. He stood up and signaled to the waiter who quickly came over, his face creased with concern. He asked if there was something wrong, but John just shook his head and handed him a wad of notes.

Sarah gave the man a reassuring smile as John headed for the door. "It's nothing to do with the food, Tom. Something has come up." She touched his arm in apology and went after John.

Outside, John paced back and forth without a word for the next ten minutes until a police car screeched to a halt at the kerb. There was no need to ask him if Sherlock was the hostage. His barely contained panic told her everything she needed to know about who was in danger.

She had never been in a police car before, let alone one careening through the streets with lights flashing and sirens going full blast. Even at the mad rate they were moving, it took nearly twenty minutes to reach the cluster of emergency vehicles in front of a four story block of flats. It was a working class neighborhood that she recognized from her brief stint last fall in a free clinic that was two streets over from where the current crisis was taking place. It had never struck her as a dangerous area, but she'd never been here at night. Right now, the atmosphere felt filled with menace.

John was out of the car the instant it stopped. He hadn't said a word to her the whole way here, and she hadn't tried to engage him. His entire focus was on getting to his friend. That much had been clear in the way he'd sat perched on the edge of the seat, leaning forward as if that would move them faster.

She lost sight of him for a moment, weaving her way through the crowd of police and bystanders. When she spotted him finally, he was with a taller man in a dark trench coat. The man had both hands on John's shoulders and was leaning down to talk to him.

"You know how he is, John," she heard the man say as she approached them. "We're just bloody lucky he bothered to let me know he was coming here to meet him. I was on my way when a neighbor called 999 to report gunshots."

She heard John make a low sound of frustration.

The man, who she assumed must be Greg, squeezed John's shoulders. "Willis says he's alive, John. He wouldn't be much good as a hostage if he wasn't. We'll get him out."

John's focus was intense. "Have you talked to him? Make him put Sherlock on the phone. I'll be able to tell how bad it is by his voice."

Greg shook his head. "He said if we push him, he'll kill them all. There are four other people in the flat, apparently. Two of them are kids."

John bowed his head. Sarah moved to his side, and Greg frowned at her. "I'm Sarah Sawyer. I'm with John." She raised her chin.

John looked at her then, and he seemed surprised. "Sarah, you need to wait in the car."

Greg looked at her, and then at John. "She can wait in the command center with us." He gave her a pointed look. She read it clearly. He wanted her to stay with John in case he might need her. There was no need to say what might create that need.

"I'm a doctor," she told Greg, and he nodded.

"Let's hope we don't need you for that." He smiled tightly. "Come with me." He turned and headed for the adjacent building, and they followed.

'Command center' had painted a mental picture that wasn't quite lived up to by the reality of the room they entered a moment later. A ground floor flat had been pressed into service, and it was cramped to the point of claustrophobia. The attraction, apparently, was the clear view of the windows on the first floor flat in the opposite building that was clearly the focus of everyone's attention. The lights in the command center were turned off, and the only illumination came from the black and white video image on a monitor that was set up on the small kitchen table. A tactical officer in a flak vest was seated in front of it. He looked up at Greg.

"We've got eyes in the front hall, but he's staying clear of it. We think they're in the bedroom at the rear of the flat."

"No luck getting another camera placed?" Greg asked.

"He heard us on the floor above and threatened to kill a hostage if we didn't get out. We're going to try from below, but it's trickier. Don't want to spook him."

John spoke for the first time, his voice low and tight. "Has he said what he wants?"

"Yeah, he wants us to pull out and leave him alone. That's not gonna happen."

John nodded. "Has anyone talked to Sherlock?" He was looking at Greg.

Greg seemed to weigh his words. "Willis said he's unconscious."

John held his gaze steadily. "So, you don't even know if he's still alive."

"Willis said he is, John."

John turned and walked over to the window, looking up at the window across the way. "Let me go in. I want to talk to him."

"You know we can't do that."

"Is he shot?" John's voice was tense, and his arms were crossed over his chest.

Greg hesitated. "Willis didn't say."

"Damn him," John hissed. "Why the hell didn't he call me?"

Sarah had been on her way to join John at the window, but that statement made her stop. Sherlock didn't call John because he was with her.

"You know how he is, John," Greg offered.

"Yeah. I do." John said it softly, as if he were talking to himself. There was guilt in his voice, and regret.

The electronic screech from a two-way radio made her jump. The man in front of the monitor picked up a device that looked like an old style cordless phone with a stubby antenna on top. He keyed the mic. "What have you got?"

A man's voice, distorted by static, came from the speaker. "We can hear shouting inside. Kids crying. He's losing it."

The man in front of the monitor stood up and went to the window to look up at the facing building. He spoke into the radio. "We're out of time. Go with the flash bangs and gas. Full breach."

John turned without a word and rushed out of the room. A moment later, she saw him crossing the area between the buildings, but two tactical officers who were standing in the cover of a large van pulled him back into the shelter where they were protected from the hostage taker's view. Sarah's heart clenched.

Greg was headed out the door. "Stay here," he said to her, and then he was gone.

Her eyes were on John, crouched tensely behind the van. Greg came into view and joined him. A moment later, her attention was drawn to the window where the hostages were being held. Brilliant flashes of light nearly blinded her for a moment, followed by a matching number of muffled booms. There was a burst of activity on the ground, and the radio crackled to life with multiple shouting voices.

And then there were two gunshots, so close together that they might have been one.

A single voice on the radio. "Suspect is down! Suspect is down!"

John was in motion immediately, rushing into the building with Greg on his heels.

Sarah left the window and went out to wait for him. She walked through the crowd of police and spectators gathering closer to the building now that the threat was over.

As she approached the van that John and Greg had been sheltered behind, she saw two officers come out of the building, each carrying a child in pajamas. They were followed by a man and a woman in civilian clothing who she assumed to be the other hostages, going by their shell-shocked expressions. They were met by paramedics who led them to waiting ambulances.

She waited, barely breathing, for John to reappear.

A moment later, two medics with a stretcher rushed into the building, and her heart sank. So, Sherlock was not mobile. Maybe still unconscious. She held her breath and prayed, some part of her mind teasing her at this burst of piety. An old adage floated through her head, "There are no atheists in foxholes."

It was taking too long, and she had visions of John kneeling at Sherlock's side, doing CPR. What else could be keeping them inside? If Sherlock were stable, they would already be on the way to A&E. The alternative was too terrible to consider. She didn't think much of Sherlock personally, but she was beginning to understand how important he was to John. It was for him that she'd been praying.

The front door opened again, and the stretcher appeared, carried by the paramedics, bearing the motionless form of Sherlock Holmes. John was at his side as soon as the stretcher cleared the door. As they came closer, she saw the blood.

From John's demeanor, she knew Sherlock was still alive, but he was clearly unconscious. John never glanced her way, but climbed into the ambulance behind the stretcher. The doors closed, and the ambulance pulled away.

"Sarah, is it?"

She jumped at the voice so close to her right side. It was Greg.

"Yes," she said, a little breathless, her hand pressed to her sternum. "How is he?"

"Unconscious," he offered unhelpfully. "Hit over the head with something heavy, by the look of it. Do you want me to take you home, or...?"

"I'm going to the hospital to be with John."

He nodded as if he expected that response. "You can come with me."

Her second ride in a police car was less exciting, and there were no sirens this time. Greg's car was just a standard sedan with a police radio and a flashing strobe on the dash. The coded conversations that crackled out of the radio made no sense to her. All she could think of was what John must be going through.

"Do you think Sherlock is seriously hurt?"

Greg gave her a distracted sideways glance. "Don't know."

The tension in his voice told her that Greg was as worried as John, and she wondered at the ability Sherlock Holmes apparently had to make these men care about him when she had seen no sign of anything even civil in the man. Maybe he didn't fancy the company of women. Or maybe, it was just her that he didn't like. Or more precisely, what she might mean to John. If that were the case, it could explain a lot.

The ambulances reached Royal London ahead of them. When she and Greg came through the A&E doors, she spotted John talking to a man in surgical scrubs. He was holding a clipboard, and his expression was the typical bland mask of professional distance. John's entire demeanor was a study in barely concealed aggression. She stayed just inside the doors, but Greg crossed straight to John's side. The man with the clipboard looked up at him and nodded.

A moment later, the man with the clipboard turned and disappeared through the double doors to the treatment area. Greg said something to John, and he looked her way with an expression that made her hesitate. He didn't seem surprised, exactly. Or annoyed. But it definitely did not feel like a welcome. And then, his eyes softened, and he came over to her.

"Sarah, I'm sorry. It's just..." He trailed off, his gaze shifting back toward the double doors. "They won't let me in."

The front of his dress shirt was stained with blood, and his sleeves were rolled up. His jacket was nowhere in sight. "How is he, John?"

John took a deep breath and puffed his cheeks blowing it out. "Concussion, at the very least. He's got a hell of a gash on his forehead and he lost a lot of blood. He's not responding to stimulus, but he's still breathing. I don't know what he got hit with, but it did the job."

She watched him for a moment. "So, the man who hurt him is dead?"

The look in John's eyes was utterly chilling. "Yes."

She realized in that moment that the John Watson she knew had a side she had never suspected. It was suddenly clear to her that he would have killed the man with his bare hands, if he'd had the chance, for what he'd done to Sherlock. She wasn't sure how that made her feel. She cleared her throat. "Do you want some coffee? I think there's a self-service machine in the cafeteria. I could get some for us."

"You don't have to stay, Sarah. Greg will take you home. It could be hours before we know anything." He smiled, but it was tight and came nowhere near his eyes.

"John, I'd like to stay."

He hesitated, then nodded. "Thanks. Coffee would be great."

She found the cafeteria with no problem. Her mother had spent her last days in the cardiac critical care unit here four years ago, and she'd become much too familiar with the layout. When she came back to the A&E waiting area, she found John sitting stiffly in one of the plastic chairs across from the treatment room, his gaze fixed on the double doors. She walked into his line of sight and stopped, waiting for him to see her before she approached. He looked ready to spring at the first thing that moved, and she didn't want to wear two cups of hot coffee.

He gave her that pained smile, and she came over to sit next to him. He took the paper cup from her and sipped. "Thank you." His gaze returned to the doors.

"What happened to Greg?"

"He'll be back in a bit. Had to go make some calls. Sherlock's brother, for one."

She wondered why John wouldn't make that call himself, but decided not to ask. It somehow surprised her that Sherlock had a family. "Have you heard anything yet?"

He shook his head. "They won't let me in," he repeated.

Of course John knew that only relatives would be allowed back with a patient in emergency treatment. There was no need to point out the obvious. There was also no point in offering platitudes to a fellow doctor. Head injuries were potentially fatal, and the time it took to determine the severity could be agonizingly long.

"Not quite the evening we had in mind." She hadn't meant to say that out loud.

John's expression told her just how inappropriate a remark it had been, and she winced. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

His smile seemed frozen on his face. "You don't have to stay, Sarah. It's okay. Really."

She couldn't decide if he was concerned about her comfort, or if he really didn't want her to stay. She wondered if she might be less a comfort than a distraction from the only thing he was focused on right now.

Before she could respond, the man with the clipboard came through the double doors and walked straight for John. His expression was unreadable. John was on his feet and intercepted him before she could react.

She waited for John to give her some indication of what was being said. She didn't want to intrude.

The man turned and walked back through the door, and John's posture sagged. She pushed aside her misgivings and joined him. "John, what did he say?"

"There's no fracture, but he's still not responding. They're taking him to the neurological unit."

Not critical care. That was good news, at least. Not that John seemed to agree.

He went back to his seat and picked up his coffee. "They're going to come and get me when he's in his room."

She watched him hold the coffee container to his lips, but he wasn't sipping, as if he'd forgotten what he was doing. There was nothing in him that wasn't completely focused on what was happening to his friend. After a few minutes, he seemed to have forgotten that she was there, too, and she began to wonder again if she should stay or leave. But then, the thought that he would be alone if Sherlock's condition deteriorated made her discard any thought of going home. She might be small comfort, but he would need someone.

It was well past visiting hours when Sherlock was moved to his room. She was surprised to find that there was only one bed in it. Private rooms were exceedingly rare outside of critical care, and she wondered how they'd managed it.

Sitting with John in those first few minutes, watching him check the monitors and then verify the readouts by taking Sherlock's pulse, counting his breaths, and carefully checking the injury on his forehead, told her more about what he was feeling than anything he could have said. His chair was pulled up close to the bedside. Hers was facing his a short distance away. She could reach out and touch him, but she didn't. The lights were dim, but the strain on John's face was clear. There was something about his tense posture that seemed intended to warn her off, as if he would shatter at her touch. She folded her hands in her lap.

She made a few attempts to draw him out, but gave up and sat back to wait. They settled into a vaguely awkward silence that was broken only by the steady beep of Sherlock's heart monitor.

"I should have been there." John's voice was soft, not really directed at her. "Why didn't he call me?" He looked at her then, and she saw the answer in his eyes.

"John, did you tell him not to? Because we were together?"

It took him a moment to realize what his look must have implied. He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. "This isn't about you, Sarah. He's done this before." His gaze returned to Sherlock. "Too many times."

She nodded, but she knew he wasn't telling her the truth. If Sherlock didn't recover, she would always be somehow responsible for having kept John from saving him. She had always thought that John dropping everything to run after Sherlock was simply habit, or maybe just because it was more exciting than what she had to offer him. That was partly why she had decided to take the next step and invite him to her bed. That activity, at least, was one that Sherlock could not trump.

But it wasn't about the excitement. And it wasn't that they were solving puzzles. The work they did together was important, and dangerous. Sherlock didn't just covet John's attention. He needed him at his side as a protector as well as a partner, and John needed it just as much. She would always come second to that, and she suddenly realized how right it was.

"Excuse me for a moment. I'll be right back." She got up and walked out into the hall to give him some space. He had barely nodded when she left, so she felt safe in standing just outside the door to watch.

John's posture relaxed immediately, and she let her own shoulders drop. It was obvious now that she should go. John wanted to be alone with Sherlock. She wasn't comforting him by being here. She truly was in the way.

The truth had been in front of her from their first date, but John was just such a good man that it had made her disregard a long-standing rule. She was a romantic, but a realist above that. She had set a limit on relationships back when she was at uni. Her studies took up too much time to allow wasting any of it chasing down a dead end. She had held fast to that rule, much to her mother's disappointment on two notable occasions. Promising prospects had to start delivering on the promise within a few months, or risk being discarded without a backward glance. John Watson, unfortunately, would rate more than a few such glances. But better to look back fondly than with regret.

She watched a moment longer, then walked to the nurses' station and left a note for John, asking him to call and let her know how Sherlock was doing. When she walked past the room on her way to the elevators, John had already settled in for the wait, his hand closed protectively over his friend's.

* * *

A/N - Sarah is a smart, independent woman. We didn't get to see her make this decision, but a wise woman would know when to move on. Sarah got out with almost all of her heart intact. It just took a little push and a glimpse of what she was truly up against. ==GW


	4. Risk and Addiction

**A/N - Endless thanks to ThessalyMc, sevenpercent, and Jolie Black for sticking with me through my tweak marathon. You're always right. There. It's official. ;-) -Ghyllwyne**

* * *

Preliminary reports of an explosion in the building opposite 221 Baker Street have started Mycroft's morning off with an unpleasant rush of adrenaline. He is staring at his phone, impatiently waiting for the surveillance team to update Sherlock's status when Sherlock's number appears on the caller ID. The flush of relief is strong enough to make him sit down rather abruptly on the nearest chair, which irritates him so much that he needs to pause and gather himself to ensure none of this shows in his voice.

"What now, Sherlock? Have you begun experimenting on the neighbors' gas lines?" The first reports are that there has been a natural gas explosion, although Mycroft knows this information to be incomplete, at best.

"Where's John?"

Mycroft hears tension beneath that curt demand. "What makes you think I am keeping tabs on your-"

"Because you're a controlling twat, Mycroft. Where is he?"

"Since you asked so nicely, Doctor Watson is at the flat of his lady friend, a Miss Sarah Sawyer."

"She's a doctor, but I'm sure you already knew that. How do you know he's still there?"

He hears the reduced stress in Sherlock's lower pitch. "Yes. I'm sure. _Doctor_ Sawyer was overheard inviting him to make his own breakfast a just a few minutes ago."

"So you're eavesdropping as well as following him? John will be so pleased."

The relief is clear in his voice now, and Mycroft wonders if his brother just found himself in need of a chair. "I imagine he's discovered by now that you're in the middle of a war zone. He hasn't called?"

There is a pregnant pause. "His phone is turned off."

"I see."

Silence.

"You sound undamaged."

Sherlock snorts in his ear. "Your concern is touching."

"I'm sure it's not. What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I want you to send John back to Baker Street. We need to investigate before the police bungle the evidence."

"I was on my way to do just that when you interrupted me. I will be there shortly. Do not leave the flat." Mycroft ends the call before Sherlock can offer the usual protests. He doesn't expect his order to carry much weight, but the prospect of Mycroft arriving with John in tow may keep Sherlock in place. One can only hope.

Ten minutes later, he is in his car reviewing the latest report sent to his tablet by the demolitions expert he dispatched to the scene. He notes that the blast pattern strongly suggests the bomber's intent was to direct the force of the explosion outward from the front wall and send as much debris as possible toward the building opposite. The damage to the block of flats where the bomb was placed is confined to the ground and first floor rooms facing the street, and it has left the rear portion of both floors intact. Not even the Met will be able to miss the indications that this was deliberately directed at 221 Baker Street, if not at Sherlock himself. Mycroft has a small handful of suspects in mind, each of whom has already been placed under intense scrutiny. If this is the overture it appears to be, he wants the plan thwarted before it goes any further.

A text arrives from his PA confirming that John is already in a taxi, making his way home. He has probably discovered that he can't reach Sherlock by phone. Standard anti-terrorism protocol will now be in place, disabling all mobile service to prevent it being used to detonate any remaining explosives. If John's anxiety is comparable to what he just heard in Sherlock's voice, their reunion could prove to be illuminating.

John Watson, and more specifically his relationship with Sherlock, remain a bit more of a mystery than Mycroft is comfortable with at this stage. He's had no opportunity to see them together since that brief encounter after the cabbie's murder, and the data Mycroft has gathered from surveillance reports since that time have proved woefully inadequate for purposes of reading sentiment and intent. This morning's meeting will be a repeat performance of the first, but with Mycroft much better prepared to assess the nuances.

He'd had Watson thoroughly vetted before their first meeting, and the picture had not been particularly favorable. In fact, his purpose for bringing him to the warehouse had been to dismiss him from Sherlock's life. The diagnosis of PTSD coupled with a review of the therapist's notes had described a self-destructive tendency that might make him susceptible to the very drugs Mycroft was trying desperately to keep out of Sherlock's reach. There was no outright evidence that the doctor used drugs himself, but Mycroft was all too familiar with his brother's ability to manipulate an opportunity.

Watson in person presented an entirely different picture. The man was damaged, yes, but not for the reasons his therapist believed. He didn't seem at all concerned by the circumstances. What Mycroft saw in the doctor's demeanor was interest and a bit of amusement. That was until he discovered the extent to which Mycroft had invaded his privacy. Then the outrage took over, along with an impressive degree of protectiveness toward Sherlock. A man he barely knew.

This morning will be only the second time he has seen them together, and he intends to make the most of it.

Sherlock is seated in his usual chair, plucking at the strings of his violin, when Mycroft enters the disaster area that is now the living room. It was organized chaos before the blast. It is now thoroughly _dis_ organized, rearranged, covered with dust and broken glass. All except the chair Sherlock is sitting in, and the one across from it that he suspects has become John's. Sherlock's nonchalant expression shows a flash of alarm when he sees that Mycroft is alone.

"Where is he?" Sherlock's question is a demand, as usual.

Mycroft crosses to John's chair and sits down uninvited. "Good morning to you, too, Sherlock. John is on his way by taxi." He leaves the implication that this is in some way a service Mycroft has performed. "Did you order him out of the flat last night, or did he leave on his own?"

This earns him an icy glare. "What does it matter?"

"It matters because you can't afford to live here without a flatmate, and if there's trouble in paradise I would appreciate a bit of advance notice."

"It was nothing."

Everything Mycroft has seen and heard in the past few moments says otherwise. "That's good to know."

"Why are you here, Mycroft?"

"To make sure that you weren't injured by the blast, of course." At Sherlock's indelicate snort, he continues, "I had intended to stop by later this morning for purposes other than reporting on the romantic dalliances of your flatmate. The excitement across the street simply sped up my timeline."

"If that file you brought with you is intended for me, I'm too busy to take on another case."

"This is not just 'another case', Sherlock. It's a matter of-"

"National importance, no doubt." The usual sneer accompanies this.

Mycroft lowers the file to his lap and joins his brother in a silent debate. When that ends in the usual impasse a moment later, Mycroft tries another tack. "How have you and John been getting on?"

The bow comes up and the tip describes a figure eight under its owners close scrutiny. "Are you pretending that you don't already know?"

"Are you suggesting that I am monitoring the premises?"

He whips the bow downward. "Don't be coy, Mycroft. It's beneath you."

Mycroft inspects the manicured nails of his left hand. "He has survived three months in close quarters with you, so I am forced to concede his stamina. I'm simply asking how you've managed to tolerate having another human underfoot for this long. He must be exceptionally diverting." The sneer is audible, and calculated to offend.

Sherlock smirks, but his eyes are steel. "You underestimate both of us, Mycroft. You always will."

"On the contrary, brother dear, I-" he begins, just as the front door opens downstairs and footsteps start up the stairs two at a time.

"Sherlock?" John Watson's voice, in a very similar tone to the one Sherlock used on the phone this morning. "Sherlock!"

Mycroft is watching the micro expressions cross Sherlock's face in rapid order from the instant the front door opens. Relief. Irritation. Anxiety again? Finally, nonchalance. Determined nonchalance.

John bounds up the stairs and stops just inside the living room door. His openly anxious gaze goes straight to Sherlock, and his relief is evident.

Pluck. "John."

"I saw it on the telly. You okay?" Hs is breathing a bit more rapidly than a brief jog up the stairs would explain. His gaze begins to take in the destruction, and he frowns.

"Me? What? Yeah, fine." Sherlock brushes off John's concern, denying his own in the process. "Gas leak. Apparently."

John continues to frown at the mess, looking a bit shell shocked.

"I can't." Sherlock picks up the conversation where he dropped it with John's arrival.

"Can't?" Won't, more likely. And not surprisingly.

Sherlock's string plucking increases in frequency and discordance. "The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time."

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance."

Twang. "How's the diet?" Sherlock pats the violin, and fixes him with an undisguised deductive gaze. He is pointedly avoiding John's.

"Fine." Mycroft is watching John scan the room and notes that his focus keeps returning to Sherlock. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John."

John seems to notice him for the first time. "What?" He crosses to the debris-strewn desk and begins to pick up bits and turn them over in his hand.

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent." And mulishly stubborn for no reason other than the source of the request.

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?"

"No,no,no no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so..." As intended, this draws the attention of both John and Sherlock. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this requires..." He adds a tinge of disgust to the practiced sneer, "legwork."

This inspires a sour note from Sherlock, literally and figuratively. To the right of Mycroft's peripheral vision, he watches John Watson continue to look around the room. When his gaze falls on the blue skull print that unaccountably has remained in place despite the obvious force that the blast must have sent through the windows, his expression shifts to something that Mycroft can't quite read. Surprise, perhaps. The print is not even askew. It's possible that Sherlock thought to straighten it, but it's eerie somehow, hanging undisturbed and pristine. Smiling at the chaos. John begins to pace, but he keeps glancing at the print. Each time he does this, he turns to look at Sherlock. Mycroft considers the possibility that Sherlock has actually told John its history. This would indicate an unprecedented level of closeness- his mind initially supplied the word 'intimacy'- that demands exploration.

"How's Sarah, John? How was the lilo?"

Since he did not tell Sherlock that John spent the night other than in Miss Sawyer's bed, this is clearly him deducing the conditions based on the way John keeps trying to rub the kink out of his neck. "The sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa."

Sherlock's glance toward John is just a trifle too casual. "Oh, yes. Of course."

"How...? Oh, never mind." John's expression flashes anger, then turns resigned as he sits down on the coffee table.

Mycroft can see their emotional walls coming up as relief washes out the worry that lowered them. He knows how to get Sherlock re-engaged, and perhaps prove a point in the process. "Sherlock's business has been booming since you and he became...pals." He puts a bit of condescension into that last word, and adds a patently false smile. "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine?"

He watches as John's mouth falls open a bit in surprise and then closes with a pronounced muscle twitch in his jaw. His gaze narrows. "I'm never bored." His tone and the slight head shake are questioning Mycroft's motives. His hands have moved to his knees, and the fingers are digging in. Coiled energy. Ready to spring.

"That's good, isn't it?" He makes his smile as oily as possible and ups the condescension to get a rise from Sherlock. Attack one, inspire the other to respond. Measure the reaction. They seem to have anticipated him, however. The silence stretches.

Mycroft gets to his feet and offers the file to Sherlock who responds by whipping the violin bow forward with an audible swish, then holding it out like a weapon. His glare is filled with an icy defiance that Mycroft knows very well. Its basis, however, is new and has less to do with the offered case file than with the snipe he just took at John. Mycroft returns Sherlock's death stare with a narrow look that Sherlock will recognize.

"Andrew West," he takes his folder and walks toward John. "Known as Westie to his friends. Civil servant." He hands John the file. "Found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head bashed in."

John looks quickly at Sherlock, then accepts the folder. "Jumped in front of a train?"

"That seems the logical assumption." He steps back to a point midway between John and Sherlock with his back to the windows. He can see both of them simultaneously from this spot, one peripherally and the other directly depending on the direction he angles his gaze.

John looks up at him with a faint smile. "But?"

Mycroft responds with a politely arched brow. "But?"

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident." His focus keeps shifting to Sherlock, measuring his reaction.

Mycroft notes the soft snort from his right and glances over in time to see the smile on his brother's face. John is smiling, too, and not at Mycroft. Whatever separated these two last night seems to have been nullified by the presence of their common adversary. A part he is perfectly willing to play. "The MOD is working on a new missile defense system. The Bruce Partington program, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

John is looking through the file, and he looks up, chuckling. "That wasn't very clever."

Mycroft notes that Sherlock is smiling again, seemingly at the bow as he meticulously wipes it with a cloth square. John is clearly pleasing him tremendously. "It's not the only copy. But it is secret. And missing."

John's focus comes back to Mycroft. "Top secret?"

Ah. There's the loyal soldier in those two words. Queen and country inspire John quite predictably. They inspire Sherlock, too, but in a much less noble direction.

"Very," Mycroft tells John. "We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He turns to look at Sherlock. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock."

Sherlock's smile turns instantly to a stony mask of indifference. Mycroft lowers his voice. "Don't make me order you."

Sherlock brings the violin to his shoulder and poises the bow. With a deeply venomous smile, he drops that lush baritone to a stage whisper meant for John's ears as well. "I'd like to see you try."

Undeterred, Mycroft adds, "Think it over." Expecting nothing positive from Sherlock while he's in this state, Mycroft returns to John with a smile similar to the one he just gave Sherlock. Unlike Sherlock, John responds by getting to his feet, ever the soldier, respectful in manner if not in spirit. He offers his hand. "Goodbye, John." Mycroft adds a promise meant for Sherlock to overhear, "See you very soon."

John's focus shifts instantly to the left and down, and his polite smile freezes. As Mycroft turns for the door, he sees that gaze lift to Sherlock, and the smile unfreezes.

He hears John's voice just as reaches the front door. He's asking Sherlock why he lied, obviously unaware of the Holmes brothers' exceptionally acute hearing. Mycroft smiles. If any force on earth, or anywhere else, has a chance of persuading Sherlock to help, it's John.

Not even Mycroft's sedan is permitted inside the tape cordon, so it requires a stroll down the block to reach it. Once safely ensconced in the quiet solitude of its passenger compartment, he leans back against the smooth leather and closes his eyes.

This second opportunity to observe John and Sherlock together has answered some existing questions, and posed new ones. Their relationship has progressed to an extent that he had suspected but still finds surprising. Sherlock taking pride in the accomplishments of another person is unexpected, and he is clearly proud of John. He actually hung back and allowed his friend to banter with his archenemy, and then smiled with personal satisfaction when John acquitted himself well. It could be argued that Sherlock's pride was at least partly at his own role in having brought John to this point, but Mycroft saw very little of that in his brother's reaction. He was pleased on John's behalf, and that is very new.

The emotional walls he had observed did not seem intended to block their sense of each other, but against the intruder in their midst. Sherlock has visibly aligned himself with another human being, and Mycroft fears the danger in that is even greater than the good it may do him. He'd actually said from the start that John could be the making of Sherlock, or make him worse than ever, but he had not foreseen this.

John is not enabling Sherlock to take risks, or to indulge in his dangerous addictions. John IS the risk AND the addiction. This is not a pleasant revelation, but less of a surprise than perhaps it should be. Mycroft glimpsed one indication in the way John reacted to the skull print, and what it might say about his relationship with its owner.

When Sherlock was a child, both he and Mycroft were quite isolated from the world by simple geography. Their home was separated from its neighbors by acres of grounds and woods. The true separation was not about physical distance, but an intellectual gap that widened until it became a chasm. Mycroft's personality made that isolation a comfort. Sherlock's made it a punishment. There had been a time when he so craved the company of other children that he begged their parents for it. When they eventually gave in, and Sherlock learned just how different he was, he withdrew. It was isolation by choice from that point on, and the yearning for company had been turned to fear of it.

Redbeard, Sherlock's Irish Setter, changed all that, but too briefly. The dog was in the last few years of its life when Sherlock found it in the woods. He had loved Redbeard, and Mycroft had tried to talk him out of it. The dog would die soon, he'd told the boy. But his warnings fell on deaf ears. When Redbeard had to be put down, it had shattered Sherlock's heart so completely that Mycroft felt it, too.

The first skull was drawn with a child's shaky hand on the door of an unused storage shed at the edge of the woods that Sherlock had claimed as his own. The skull was a clear, intentional message. Keep out. When Mycroft went away to school, Sherlock saw him off with a new rule. He was no longer welcome in the shed. The skull was for him, too.

Later, the skull was joined by the crossbones of a pirate flag, and later still by the actual human skull that Mummy got for him against her better judgment when he asked for one as a particularly macabre birthday gift.

The print on the wall at Baker Street was a gift Sherlock bought for himself the summer before he started university. That Mycroft understood their meaning would no doubt astonish his brother, but it was a simple progression, really. From the skull drawn on the shed door, to the skull and crossbones, to the physical skull, to the adult version of the shed door: the blue skull print. It protects Baker Street now, and John.

Mycroft has told Sherlock many times that caring is not an advantage, and until quite recently he'd seemed to believe it. If he has in fact allowed himself to care about John Watson as Mycroft believes, there aren't enough skulls on earth to protect him from what that will mean.

* * *

End


End file.
